


Attached

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: A hunting party finds an injured dog in the woods and Clarke is wary of getting too emotionally invested. But it seems like she's the only one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> because @apanoplyofsong mentioned therapy dogs and i couldn't resist. also, i'm pretending the world didn't end and not giving you any explanation as to how or why.

Clarke is the only one available in medical when the hunting party brings it in.

Jackson is technically around, and by all accounts more trained than Clarke is-- not that anyone in Arkadia has much training or experience with this-- but he’s busy with other patients. And neither of them are particularly excited about the prospect of interrupting Abby’s sleep.

So when the hunting party brings in an injured, snarling wolf-like creature that looks like it has been mauled by some larger animal, and sets it down on an empty cot, Clarke figures its fate is in her hands.

“We think it’s a girl,” Harper says, hand twitching like she wants to pet the thing. The slight movement prompts a baring of teeth and the low thrum of a growl. This is not an animal to be trifled with. “We didn’t really get a chance to look, though. She barely let us carry her here.”

“Why  _ did _ you carry her here?” Clarke asks, scrubbing her hands so she can inspect the wound. A beast this size could mean good meat and furs for a not-insignificant number of people. If she hadn’t already been injured, they might not have been able to catch her.

“She has puppies,” Jasper says quietly, and suddenly Clarke is as loathe to kill the animal as they are to let her. “Miller Senior offered to keep them in his bunk until we can get the mom back on her feet again.”

“Harper, see if you can find some way we can bind her mouth closed. Jasper, I need you to help me hold her still. I don’t know how to sedate an animal, and I like my hands attached to my body.”

They follow her directions quickly. As Jasper's hands press into the animal's fur, Clarke notices that one of them is wrapped tightly.

"What happened there?"

"She bit me. It's not her fault. I spooked her."

Clarke nods.

"I can take a look at it when we're done here."

"I'll get Jackson to do it," he mutters, not meeting her eyes.

Clarke strokes the animal’s fur as she takes a look at the gashes in its side. They’re nasty, all shredded tissue and blood and dirt packed in together, but they don’t appear too deep. Clarke hopes the wounds truly are as superficial as they look, because veterinary medicine was not knowledge preserved by the Ark.

It was already well past midnight when the hunting party arrived back at camp. They were supposed to be gone for a few days, but the discovery of the injured dog-- because that’s what Clarke thinks it is-- brought them home early. By the time she’s done patching the animal up, Jasper and Harper are dead on their feet.

“You guys can go,” she says, as gentle as possible. “We’re done here.”

“Someone should sit with her,” Jasper says, even as he fights to keep his eyes open.

“I’ve got it,” Clarke promises. The dog finally succumbed to exhaustion about an hour prior, and she’s still weak, so Clarke doesn’t think she’ll need help restraining her when she comes to.

“You sure?” Harper says, dubious. Clarke doesn’t blame her. She’s not known for being a warm and fuzzy, comforting presence.

“I’m sure.”

“Come get us if you need us.”

“I will.”

She washes her hands, rinses the dog’s fur as well as she can. It’s amazing to take in, amazing to think creatures like this one survived the nuclear apocalypse and the tumultuous years that followed.

Her fur is shaggy and soft, if a little mangled, and Clarke finds herself threading her fingers through it as she keeps a close eye on her breathing. She gently unknots tangles, soothing herself as much as the dog as she works down her back.

Her thumb traces the line of the dog’s ear, feeling a jagged edge, a remnant of some past danger. Clarke wonders how many scars this dog has, how many times she’s fought and lived. She wonders whether, if her own scars were more visible, she’d be prouder of them. Whether she’d wear them for all to see that she made it out the other side.

She thinks about clipping the dog’s nails, but decides in the end that she’d rather risk a few scratches if it would let the mother defend her family, protect her own out in the wild. Clarke knows what it’s like to be on her own in that forest. She wants to give this animal every fighting chance, once she’s better, to keep surviving.

She sits with the dog all night, grooming and soothing. Once she wakes up, Clarke even starts talking to her, murmuring nonsensical things in her calmest tone, to keep her docile. To keep her still, so she won’t rip her stitches, or Clarke’s head off.

That’s how Bellamy finds her.

He always comes into medical first thing in the morning. He rises, like clockwork, before the sun and brings both of their breakfast rations to eat by her side. Where he can monitor her progress. She’s not sure if he trusts her to stop working when she says she will, to eat and sleep when she ought. He trusts her with his life, but he doesn’t trust her with her own.

She can’t blame him. She’s the same way, making sure his ever-present cuts and bruises are carefully tended to, forcing him to take breaks when he’s overscheduled himself, strong-arming him into haircuts and shaving when he doesn’t realize how much he needs them. They don’t know how to care for themselves, so they take care of each other.

They do better together.

“What’s this?” His voice is rough like it’s the first time it’s been used today.

The dog watches him with wary silver eyes. When Bellamy drags a stool next to Clarke’s and passes her a plate of food, the patient growls at him. It’s a low rumble, a threat, and Bellamy’s eyebrows rise.

“Stop it,” Clarke chides, her hand coming to a stop on the crown of the dog’s head. Her thumb strokes her brow in steady, sure motions. Her other fingers scratch lightly where they rest, behind her ears, across the nape of her neck. Miraculously, she quiets. “That’s right. Good girl. It’s just Bellamy. He just wants to feed us.”

“Us?” Bellamy sounds like he’s torn between amusement and skepticism.

She snags a piece of rabbit meat from her own plate and slips it past the muzzle. The dog snaps it up, eager, and her teeth nearly close on Clarke’s hand. Bellamy tenses, but Clarke makes herself stay calm.

When all the meat is gone, the dog noses against Clarke’s hand and whimpers.

“That’s all I have,” Clarke says regretfully.

“I’ll see about getting it a portion of its own.”

“She’s a lady, Bellamy.”

“A portion of  _ her _ own, then.” Definitely amusement. “Sorry. Does that mean we’re keeping her?”

“At least until she’s healed a little bit. She’s got puppies to take care of.”

Bellamy is quiet for a moment, and when Clarke tears her eyes away to look at him, he’s giving her that look. The one where his understanding is so complete, it feels like Clarke is looking into a mirror and seeing her own soul reflected back at her.

“And then?”

“It depends whether she wants to be kept. I’m trying not to get too attached,” she admits. He gives her half a smile.

“Good luck,” he says, sincere. “It never works.”

And Clarke doesn’t think he’s talking about the dog anymore.

* * *

 

Unfortunately, nobody else gets the memo about not getting attached. Though Clarke is the only one the mother will let near her (though she growls slightly less at Bellamy), the puppies are a completely different story. They’re slobbering, clumsy,  _ adorable _ little things that worm their ways into the hearts of all they meet.

David Miller is a generous man, but when he finds out the puppies will be staying until their mother is back on her feet, he redistributes them so he isn’t saddled with the entire litter. A few go to families, ones with small children who squeal enough to match the puppies’ enthusiasm. But many parents have taken in more than one child orphaned when the Ark came down, and they don’t have the capacity to keep one.

Raven volunteers to take one, picking her favorite right off the bat. She names him Sirius, after the dog star, and trains him to fetch things for her.

“How did you get him to differentiate between a wrench and a screwdriver?” Clarke asks, flabbergasted.

“Oh, he doesn’t bring me what I ask him for,” Raven scoffs, smiling down at the lug wrench and sending Sirius back to the toolbox. “We’ll work up to that. For now, it’s just a game.”

Sirius drops a pair of pliers at her feet with a clang and yips at her.

“Good boy,” she coos, scratching under his chin and tossing him a treat the kitchen staff concocted. The puppy’s tail goes nuts with her praise, practically vibrating with pride.

Raven’s smile is equally joyful, and Clarke wonders if they could just keep this one puppy. Just to make Raven happy.

But then the most excitable of the puppies imprints on Monty.

She’s a blur of constant motion, running in circles around his feet so that he has to watch his step everywhere he goes. She loves to pounce on him, constantly angling to be picked up or to be played with, biting and pawing at his pants legs when he’s standing, or climbing all over him when he’s seated. His lap is her domain, her throne, and he names her Cleo like the queen she is.

He isn’t the only one who dotes on her, of course. Harper slips her way too many treats, whenever she thinks Monty isn’t looking, until Cleo becomes a little bit chubbier than her siblings. They argue about it, Harper insisting that Cleo will grow into the extra weight as she gets older, and Monty assuring Harper that he’ll be paying closer attention from now on.

The real kicker is, despite the fact that Cleo starts each night curled up on the cushion Monty and Harper set out for her in their room, she inevitably ends up in Jasper’s bed each morning. The first time, Jasper carries her back to Monty’s room with a scowl, looking uncomfortable when Harper answers the door in her sleep shirt.

“Here,” he grunts, thrusting the puppy at her. Cleo squirms until Harper puts her down, then promptly walks two laps around her cushion and settles down on it.

“How--”

“I woke up with her butt in my face.” Jasper crosses his arms, like he’s upset a puppy sought him out for cuddles. “My whole bed smells like dog.”

"Don't blame that on Cleo," Harper mutters.

“I don’t even know how she got out,” Monty says, stepping in before Jasper can react. “We keep the door closed at night.”

“Well," Jasper grunts, the awkwardness between them pushing him away. "Just make sure it doesn't happen again."

But it does happen again. Somehow, every night, Cleo manages to find her way to Jasper’s room. She’ll curl up on his chest, or wiggle until her face is tucked beneath his arm, and on occasion even wakes him by licking his face. Jasper acts less than pleased, but he softens towards Cleo-- and towards Monty, by extension-- over time.

Despite all this, Clarke doesn’t realize how hard it will be to let the puppies go until Bellamy.

“You  _ would _ pick the runt of the litter,” she teases, watching as the tiny puppy slips and stumbles across his legs in an effort to lick every inch of him. His mother is curled up at Clarke’s side, her head resting on Clarke’s thigh as the four of them eat dinner.

“Bellamy Blake: a sucker for the little, helpless ones.”

“Shut up,” he grunts, his words negated by the small smile on his face as he watches the puppy scramble. He scoops it up and cradles it close. It looks even smaller in his giant hands, held against his giant chest, but it curls up like that’s exactly where it wanted to be all along.

And Clarke knows, in a burst of sudden clarity, that there’s no way they’re letting these dogs go.

Not when they’re making Raven smile.

Not when they’re mending bridges between Jasper and Monty.

Not when Bellamy is actually letting himself be loved in the way Clarke thinks he deserves: irrefutably, relentlessly, unconditionally. Not after Clarke has seen the wonder in his eyes that this little creature is overcome with unreserved, undisguised delight every time Bellamy walks in a room.

She knows how the puppy feels. She can relate.

“So much for not getting attached,” she sighs, laughing as the mother prods her leg with a paw, a demand to be petted. Clarke’s hand obligingly sinks into the fur on her back, stroking and scratching until the dog’s foot thumps and she rolls over so Clarke can have easy belly-rubbing access. “We’re definitely keeping you guys now, aren’t we?” She asks.

Bellamy’s puppy yips, and she takes that as a sign of agreement.

“That’s what I thought.

“You have a name for her?”

Clarke hums. She’s been trying to avoid naming her, even as she’s burrowed deeper and deeper into Clarke’s heart.  The same heart Clarke thought was too broken, had been stuffed to bursting and then patched up so many times there wasn’t much capacity left.

“Artemis,” she decides, looking up and meets Bellamy’s eyes. As she knew she would. “She was goddess--”

“Of the wilderness,” he nods, smiling faintly. “I know.” He looks down at the dog that is now butting its head against his chest without any discernible goal except being close to him.

“What about you?” Clarke asks, slumping as Artemis pushes herself further across her lap. “You have a name in mind?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Well,” Clarke says thoughtfully, “What are your favorite things? You could always go with the name of some historical figure. Like you did with--”

She breaks off before she can say Octavia’s name. She’s still kind of a sore spot for both of them, Bellamy worried and regretful, Clarke bitter and resentful. He gives her a wry smile.

“Napoleon,” Clarke offers, trying to change the subject. “He was famously small, right?”

“He was also kind of a dick,” Bellamy snorts. “I might go with a different naming technique this time around.”

“Fair enough. Okay, what else does Bellamy Blake like?” Bellamy shakes his head at the dog, like the puppy has any idea how ridiculous he thinks Clarke is being. “I’ve got it,” she says, snapping her fingers. Artemis perks her head up. “Guns.”

“Guns,” he repeats, his voice flat. “What, you want to name him Sniper? Bullet? Here, little Semi-automatic,” he jokes, his voice rising enough to catch the puppy’s attention. “Here, Assault Rifle. Here, boy.”

“I obviously meant something gun- _ related _ ,” Clarke nudges his knee with hers. “What about Trigger?”

“Trigger.”

“Yeah. Small, but essential.”

“You know, I never thought you’d get so hung up on size.”

“Shut up,” Clarke groans, flushing. He smirks at her, then at the puppy.

“What do you think, Trigger? That a good name?”

The puppy reacts to his tone more than anything else, pausing where he was gnawing at Bellamy’s fingers to look up at Bellamy and cock his head to one side.

Clarke has to grin. “I think he likes it.”

“He’s a puppy. He likes everything.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t like anything half as much as he likes you,” Clarke points out.

“Well,” Bellamy grumbles, his ears as pink as Trigger’s tongue. “Sirius must’ve gotten all the brains, then.”

“Nah.” Clarke’s hand drifts to play with Artemis’s tail. “I think your dog has pretty good instincts.”

Bellamy doesn’t have a comeback for that.

 

* * *

 

Abby and Kane less than enthusiastic about keeping the dogs.

"They could be carrying diseases."

"We'd know by now if they were," Clarke points out. "Artemis bit Jasper the night they found her, and he's fine."

"We don't know the first thing about domesticating wild animals," Kane points out, his tone at odds with the enamored look on his face as Sirius and Trigger tussle. Neither of them have great balance or muscle coordination yet, so they're mostly just flopping atop each other and tripping over their own feet.

"We're pretty sure they're already domesticated," says Raven. "Or, Artemis is, at least. She's wary of strangers, but she's comfortable with humans she knows."

Abby's eyes flit to Artemis, calm at Clarke's side as she stares out past the gate. Her ears stand at attention, like they did when she spotted a rabbit earlier. Clarke can imagine the danger her mother sees: Artemis's teeth are sharp, her stature intimidating. If she wanted to, she could inflict a lot of damage.

At that very moment, her tongue lolls out of her mouth and she drops down to sit on her haunches, apparently satisfied that the camp is not in immediate rabbit-related danger. Clarke can't repress her smile.

 

"I suppose we could give them a trial period," Abby says, to everyone's surprise. When Clarke looks up, she finds her mother scrutinizing her expression. "As long as they don't cause trouble, I don't see a reason why we can't try to make this work. Of course, we don't need more mouths to feed--"

"They've been living on their own for who knows how long," Bellamy interrupts. Trigger turns to him at the sound of his voice and pounces on his boot, chomping at the worn leather, the fraying laces. "We'll be fine."

For the first time in a long time, Clarke thinks that might be true.

 

* * *

 

“Clarke.  _ Clarke. _ ” Bellamy’s voice, urgent and low breaks through like the moon on a cloudy night. “Wake up.” She feels fingers brushing hair off her forehead. “You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”

She bolts upright, gasping for air and drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around her legs. Bellamy’s hand moves to her back, stroking small circles between her shoulder blades and slowly drawing her to lean into his chest. He’s solid and firm behind her. She can feel his heart beating steadily and wills her own to match it.

Artemis jumps up onto Clarke’s bed, licking tentatively at her hand before settling half in Clarke’s lap. She doesn’t seem to realize she’s too big for that to really be comfortable for her human, but Clarke doesn’t mind tonight. The pressure helps, in the same way that a heavy blanket might lull someone to sleep, or the way that having a hand to squeeze offers an outlet for pain. Clarke presses a kiss to her fur.

“What’s wrong?” She asks Bellamy when she has her breath back.

“Nothing’s wrong. It was just a dream.”

She can feel his words in his chest pressed against her shoulder, in his throat under her ear, in the puffs of breath against her forehead. But she doesn’t understand them. If nothing is wrong, why is he here? If he didn’t have a reason to come and get her, how did he find her in her nightmare?

“Artemis came and got me,” he says in answer to her unspoken question. “Started scratching at my door and barking until it woke Trigger up, and then half the hall.” He huffs a laugh. “I couldn’t figure out what she wanted, but she kept--  _ herding _ me.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, combing his hands through her hair. All of a sudden she understands why Artemis is constantly prompting Clarke to pet her. “I’m glad she came for me. Do you get those a lot?”

“Every now and then. I keep seeing Wells. And Finn. And Lexa.”

He exhales heavily, then huffs again and leans away from Clarke. She’s about to protest when he returns to her, dropping Trigger half in her lap, half on top of his mother. He bites playfully at Artemis’s ear and she lets him.

“He must’ve followed us.”

“Typical Blake,” Clarke shakes her head fondly, leaving it tucked into the crook of his neck. “Always got to be where the action is.”

“Doesn’t take orders well,” Bellamy counters.

“Never lets down someone who needs him.”

Clarke can hear Bellamy’s breath catch. She dares him silently to call her on it, to tell her it’s not true. She’ll defend Bellamy Blake to himself until she’s out of words, out of breath. It’ll be the hill she dies on.

But he doesn’t say anything.

“Are you good?” He asks instead. “Do you-- Is there anything I can do?”

She makes herself sit up. Shake her head.

“No. You should go back to bed. I’ll be okay.” He looks like he’s about to object, but she stuffs Trigger in his arms before he can get the words out. “Seriously, Bellamy. I’m fine. And if I’m not, Artemis knows where to find you.”

He nods and leans in, kissing Clarke’s forehead, then Artemis’s.

“You’re a smart girl,” he tells her, giving her an extra scratch. “Good girl.”

He finally rises, taking a wiggly Trigger with him.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he promises Clarke.

“I don’t doubt it. Good night, Bellamy.”

“Night.”

Artemis doesn’t seem inclined to move much, even after Bellamy is gone, which is just as well since Clarke’s covers are on the floor. She scoots out from under her dog just a little, curling around her, and falls back to sleep with her fingers threaded in Artemis’s fur.

And if, when Bellamy arrives the next morning with their breakfasts, he brings a couple of extra treats for Artemis, Clarke doesn’t say anything.

 

* * *

 

“Ugh.” Clarke scrunches her nose and pushes Artemis away from her face. “You stink.”

“Now, is that any way for you to talk to a lady?” 

“It is when she’s in dire need of a bath. I’d hope you would tell me if I needed one this bad.”

Bellamy leans in close and takes a big whiff. Clarke ignores the way it makes her heart race.

“You’re probably fine,” he admits. “But I don’t think you’ll get through giving Artemis a wash without getting drenched, yourself.” Clarke groans. She hadn’t thought of that. “Luckily,” Bellamy adds, “I have a plan.”

After clearing it with Kane, Bellamy leads Clarke and their dogs down to a spring they’d found a few months back. Arkadia has running water now, in limited amounts, so it’s almost like a private getaway these days. Privacy was never a plentiful resource on the Ark, and Clarke relishes moments like these

He and Clarke strip down to their underthings and she tries very hard not to blush. Not with so much skin on display to give her away. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, but Bellamy is always a sight to behold. And then he’s scooping Trigger into his arms and wading into the spring, all smiles and wet hair plastered to his forehead, drops of water clinging to his hard planes of muscle. Clarke feels a little faint.

It won’t be nightmares that wake her in a sweat, tonight.

Artemis seems tentative about the water, and remembering the Thing that almost got Octavia, that first day on the ground, Clarke can’t blame her. She tries to tug her dog into the spring, but Artemis digs her paws in and refuses to come.

“Looks like she’s as stubborn as you are,” Bellamy calls. Clarke sticks her tongue out at him, and his laugh echoes off the rocks.

In the end, Clarke manages to coax Artemis into the shallows. They settle on a rock, Artemis caged between Clarke’s legs as she gently lathers soap into her fur.

Water sloshes as Bellamy makes his way over to her, seating himself at her back and starting to work the soap into Clarke’s hair while Trigger splashes nearby, trying and failing to catch the tiny, quick fish that dart around them.

“Mmm.” Clarke closes her eyes as Bellamy’s fingers work against her scalp. “That feels nice.”

His thumbs rub circles into the tight muscles at the base of her head, down her neck. She wants to lose herself in the roughness of his fingers, the tenderness of his actions. Artemis, however, is tired of the soap and whimpers, placing a paw on Clarke’s knee to steal her attention.

“Sorry, girl,” she laughs, cupping her hands and letting the water run down Artemis's sides. “Got distracted.”

“Distracted, huh?” Bellamy’s breath is warm against her bare shoulder, a contrast against the coolness of her damp skin. She shudders, and hopes he doesn’t notice. But his voice holds more glee when he speaks again, so it’s likely he didn’t miss it. “What’s distracting you, Clarke?”

_ You, _ she’s about to say, when Artemis decides she’s had enough. She rolls around in the water, careening into Clarke so that she has to grab ahold of the closest thing, which turns out to be Bellamy’s thigh, so as not to slip off the rock. Bellamy’s hands freeze in Clarke’s hair and she jerks her hand away as if it’s been burned.

“Clarke--” he starts to say, but is cut off by Artemis shaking herself, flinging droplets of water all over both of them. Clarke laughs, pushing herself off the rock to dunk her own head under the water. It’s bracing, brings her back to her senses.

“You’re not going to shake yourself dry, are you?”

She leans over and shakes her head at him until a couple of droplets fall on his face, at home among his freckles. He makes no move to wipe them away, so she raises a hand and swipes at them with her thumb, trying not to redden at the thought of catching them with her tongue.

He reaches up to catch a drop of water on the tip of her nose, his knuckles brushing against her lips.

“Your turn,” she breathes, placing her hands on his shoulders (his shoulders that she  _ never _ wants to stop touching, holy  _ shit _ ) and pushing him sideways, off the rock and into the water. He emerges spluttering and grabs Clarke’s wrist, drags her down with him. She doesn’t go all the way under, hooking her arm over his shoulders to keep herself afloat, so she doesn’t miss Trigger yapping and Artemis barking a warning in the background.

Instead of keeping up the fight, he loops his arm around her waist, tugging her close. Her feet brush against his legs. She’s not that much shorter than he is; if his feet reach, hers probably could, but she’s not interested in finding out. She’s much more content to cling to him.

“You want me to take care of this?” She asks, tugging on the curls at the nape of his neck. In return, he reaches out to brush her golden locks off her shoulder, letting it fan out in the water around them.

“Sure.”

She perches on the rock they sat on before, Bellamy standing between her legs. She’s got an unobstructed view of his back, and it’s not  _ better _ than his face, but it’s at least got the advantage that he can’t see how red she’s getting.

Artemis comes over to investigate, but once she catches the scent of the soap and she’s backing away, snarling and glaring. Trigger is less reserved, jumping off the rock and paddling furiously for Bellamy, who laughs each and every time. They make a game out of it, Bellamy setting the dog back on the rock, only for him to jump again.

Bellamy’s laugh might be the best sound she’s ever heard.

Eventually, Trigger gets tired and shakes himself off, padding out of the water and nestling into the pile of Bellamy’s clothes.

At this point, Clarke has run out of excuses to touch him, but she can’t make herself stop running her fingers through his hair.

“He’s pretty cute, huh?” 

“He’s a puppy. Of course he’s cute."

Artemis appears between the trees, sniffing around as she wanders, then slips back into the shade.

"Aren't you worried that one day she just... won't come back?" Bellamy asks, his voice quiet.

Clarke's hands falter in his hair, but when she speaks, her voice is certain.

"She'll always come back," she assures him. "She'll always come home. We're her family now."

Bellamy turns to face Clarke. He rests his hands on her knees, like he doesn’t dare to place them anywhere else. When she speaks, she has to strive for a normal tone.

"We were fighting a losing battle, trying not to get attached.”

His thumb strokes across her knee.

“I was never trying that hard,” he confesses. “I’ve been attached the whole time.”

Clarke’s heart is pounding. She reaches for his face, tracing the strong cut of his jaw, pressing gently into the muscle he likes to clench when he’s holding himself together. Her fingers sweep along his cheekbones, down the line of his nose, over his brow. His eyelids flutter closed as her fingers trip lightly across them.

It feels like stepping onto Earth for the first time. She’d spent her life studying it from afar, but it was an entirely different thing to experience it for herself. It seems to her that she met Bellamy a lifetime ago, and here she is, mapping a new path for them. This isn’t the most vulnerable they’ve ever been with each other-- they’ve bared a lot more than their skin, they’ve offered up the darkest parts of themselves-- but what comes next is new territory.

“You know, Trigger looks at you like you’re the best thing in the whole world.” Her voice is hardly louder than a breath. Bellamy swallows, finally ready to refute her claim. She doesn’t give him the chance.

She leans forward, uses the gentlest press of her fingertips to tilt his face toward hers. He comes willingly, his nose brushing her cheek.

“He’s not wrong,” she tells him, leaving no room for argument.

It's like the strings holding him back snap and he surges forward to close the space between them. His lips slide against hers, hot and wet and a little chapped. He tastes familiar, but Clarke can't put her finger on it. She can hardly think. Her fingers weave into his curls, holding his face close to hers, and his tighten on her knee before skimming her legs, her sides, around to her back. He presses her closer, so close, yet not close enough. Water trickles down her back, sending shivers down her spine that have him breaking away, leaning his forehead against hers.

"Maybe we should go back to camp and get you warmed up," he says, voice full of promises. She nearly shivers again.

"You could warm me up right here."

He laughs and nuzzles her neck, bites gently at a spot beneath her jaw. A familiar growl cuts across the clearing. When Clarke draws back to make sure everything is okay, she finds Artemis glaring at Bellamy.

"She thinks I'm attacking you," he laughs. His smile is all teeth even as he skims it across her collarbone. Clarke feels like she's about to combust.

Another chaste kiss and she disengages. Artemis doesn't relax, keeping a wary eye on Bellamy as they redress. 

"Should I be worried she's going to attack you in the middle of the night?" Clarke asks, frowning as Artemis snaps when Bellamy reaches for her hand. Her other hand drifts to soothe the dog, stroking her ears, her snout, whatever she can reach as they start the trek back to camp.

"She's just trying to protect you," he says lightly, no fear at all. "I can't blame her for that."

"Well, she'll have to learn how to share," Clarke grumbles. Bellamy hides his smile in her hair, swinging his arm around her shoulders to pull her close.

"Don't worry," he says. "We'll work on it."


End file.
